


Things I Brought Back from the War

by marlowe_tops



Series: Things I Brought Back from the War [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bestiality, Hound of the Baskervilles (sort of), John comes back from Afghanistan as a Werewolf, M/M, Mating, Rape/Non-con References, Werewolves, lycanthropy, things I brought back from the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe_tops/pseuds/marlowe_tops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not quite post-traumatic, not really. Easier to say that it is. There's no way to explain; Oh, by the way, I'm a werewolf, and I need someplace I can lock myself up on full moons, just in case I go rampaging across the countryside.</p>
<p>But it's a problem, because giving Sherlock a mystery is like giving a child a wrapped gift: working it open is the best part.</p>
<p>And once he does, what then?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The backstory/prequel of John and Sebastian in Afghanistan is here: [How to Earn Your Discharge from the Last Chance Fusiliers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489732)
> 
> It's optional, but recommended.

The peace and quiet hangs like a solid weight in his chest. 

Item, nightmares. Every night like clockwork. The dusty fields of Afghanistan by night. Gunshots. Bombs. Blood. And the wolf.

John counts up the things in his life that haunt his days and nights, the things that keep him trapped and contained and slowly going mad with PTSD and all the things he left behind.

Item, one house in Shropshire. Root cellar converted into a bomb shelter, a relic from the times when you could say _the war_ and people wouldn’t ask _which one?_

It’s safe here, in Shropshire. John’s favorite aunt is a tough old nut, with good, solid Watson stubbornness and the ability to keep any secret close as her cards. Alice Watson doesn’t ask too many questions. She just locks the bomb shelter at night and unlocks it in the morning, and trusts that John doesn’t need to be lectured about his problems.

Item, a curse in the blood. An itch by moonlight. Self-loathing. The necessity of concrete walls once a month to keep you from slaughtering half the countryside.

Three months he’s been back. Three full moons locked in the bomb shelter, and three mornings where he wakes up sore and miserable, with patchy, oneiric memories of howling at the unforgiving concrete walls. He feels as though he’s going mad, piece by piece. There’s nothing but quiet and solitude at his aunt’s cottage in Shropshire, with only a few cozy little towns within driving distance. 

It makes him miss the war. He misses the danger, the adventure, feeling needed, feeling quick and resourceful. He misses the men in his unit, the ones they called the _Last Chance Fusiliers_ , who served under the unparalleled Sebastian Moran.

Item, one broken heart.

~

_Another night in the stone box._

_The wolf does not remember nights outside of the stone box. Somewhere, outside, there was once a mate and freedom. All the space anyone could ever need under an endless starry sky, blessed by the moon above and the hot bite of desert sand beneath his feet. He knows it is out there, or was once. The other self knows how to get there._

_But the wolf does not remember ever having been there. The wolf only remembers nights, and the stone box._

_Lonely. Hungry. Aching. Trapped._

_The wolf hates the stone box._

_The other self hates everything._

~

He leaves Shropshire because he must. 

His aunt makes it clear that he is always welcome, and he obtains permission to come back every full moon, no questions asked. She tells him to keep his copy of the key. 

But he can’t live in Shropshire. Even if he gets a job at the little clinic two towns over—which he considers—he can’t stay here. He can feel the solitude edging in at the corners of his mind, and he’s afraid that if he stays, the solitude will start to rot into madness.

His therapist tells him he needs time and rest. 

If John gets any more time and rest, he’s going to snap.

So he says his goodbyes, catches a train to London, and speaks to a real estate agent about finding a flat with a bomb shelter.

“Symptom of the post-traumatic,” he tells her, with a self-deprecating smile.

Simperingly sympathetic, she returns his smile and pats his hand as she slips him her personal number. She’s pretty enough. A year ago, she would have been his type.

But now, he doesn’t dare risk relationships. If he lets anyone get that close, they’ll be in danger. He’s seen first hand how bad things can get, when the wolf starts getting the idea that someone is his mate. 

London is unrecognizable. 

He used to know his way around this city. He knew all the shortcuts and the tube routes. But he’s been a long time in Afghanistan, and ten years is enough for everything to change. Harry gave him some newfangled mobile that he barely understands how to work. Everyone’s wired in to social networks through their skinny laptops and ipads. John tries one of social websites, thinking that he might reconnect with his friends from before the war, but all his friends from before the war were university friends, and all of them have moved on, gotten married, and become different people. He doesn’t recognize them. He doesn’t care about the things they ‘like’ and ‘follow’. 

His therapist convinced him to start a blog, but it remains empty. He has nothing to say. Nothing happens to him except that concrete bomb shelter once a month. And he isn’t going to write about _that_.

He sits in the park and watches London pass him by. All those lives, all those people. So much going on just beneath the surface. But he can’t break that surface. He’s trapped on the outside of life, behind a glass wall of the secret he’s keeping. And it has to stay that way. For everyone’s safety.

~

221C Baker Street is a dismal little basement-level flat with only a few windows. As his landlady says, it keeps the damp. It’s clear she hasn’t put much work into it, because she never expects to rent it. 

But the place could fix up decently enough, and that will give John something to do. The landlady is darling, he likes her immediately, and the bomb shelter he needs is perfect.

There aren’t many bomb shelters in London anymore, and almost none of them are attached to flats in John’s price range. It’s a tougher request than he expected it to be, and at this point he can’t afford to be picky. He hopes he won’t even have to use the in-flat shelter. Safer to head up to Shropshire for full moons. But he doesn’t dare risk not having a failsafe here in London.

“It’s an odd thing,” Mrs. Hudson says, getting down on her knees to roll up the rug that covers the bare concrete floor. John drops down beside and helps her. “It was here when I bought the place. Not a note about it in the papers on the house, but the realtor showed it to me when I moved in. Obvious enough if you don’t have the rug down. It must date from the war, but not many put bomb shelters in townhouse basements, do they?”

It is out of place. A steel hatch is set into the concrete floor, which is itself unusual for a townhouse of this age. The addition of the bomb shelter must have been made at some cost, and probably at disregard of city codes. John wonders what they were thinking—if a bomb hit this place, you’d need a substantial rescue team to dig out the top floors before anyone could open this hatch and make their way out. Seems like a good way to seal yourself in for a slow death. 

Once the rug is aside, John twists the handle open and pulls it up. The hatch is heavy, and contains a ladder down into the darkness.

“The post-traumatic, is it?” Mrs Hudson asks, looking from the dark hole below to where John is kneeling on the floor beside her.

“Yes,” John says. It’s an excellent excuse, because people don’t question his odd requests. And it’s close enough to true. He has most of the symptoms, although they aren’t his primary problem. 

The interior of the hatch has a wheel that twists to open. Definitely not something the wolf has the dexterity to manipulate. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, John shines it down inside the hole. It’s a small, tight room with a low ceiling. Filled with years of dust, and some ancient supplies. No one’s ever bothered to maintain or clean this place. It’s been closed up and forgotten by all owners since its installation. 

That can be fixed. It’s large enough to fit John, and it’s large enough to fit the wolf. That’s all that matters. 

“I’ll take it,” John says, flicking the flashlight off. 

Mrs. Hudson opens her mouth as though she’s going to argue— _place like this isn’t good for you, dear. It isn’t good for anyone._

But she’s his landlady, and renting this place is her priority. 

“Come on, then,” she says. “I’ll go get the papers.”

Her flat is a vast improvement upon what will be his. Mrs. Hudson’s home is warm and cozy, and she plies him with a cup of tea and some biscuits as she bustles around finding the necessary paperwork. John thinks he might find excuses to come do maintenance tasks around her flat so that he can spend time here instead of downstairs. He can probably obtain himself an invitation for tea and a biscuit most days, at the very least.

Musing on those plans, John’s savoring his cup of tea when a gangly stranger with a mop of dark hair bursts in through the door.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he calls, leaning over to check in the fridge in a manner that is so like a grown-up son come back to visit his mother that John is surprised to hear him address her by last name. The stranger only glances at him at first, disinterested, but his gaze immediately catches, and he openly stares at John.

“Um,” John says, attempting to be polite in the face of such peculiarity. “Hello?”

The stranger’s head tilts very slightly, but then Mrs. Hudson walks back into the room, interrupting them both. “Oh, Sherlock, dear. Is something the matter?”

Sherlock’s attention snaps back to her. “Sodium bicarbonate. Have you got any?”

“Sodium bi—why would I have…”

“Baking soda,” John interjects helpfully. Sherlock’s attention returns to him. He feels like he’s being observed, like a rat in a cage. Taking control of this odd interaction, John stands up and offers his hand. “Doctor John Watson.” 

“Sherlock Holmes. 221B.” Sherlock shakes his hand, with a brisk, firm shake as though handshakes are something to be gotten over with. “Is it your dislike of your aunt’s dog that brings you to London, or something else?”

_His aunt’s dog._ She doesn’t have a dog, but the question gives him chills. “Sorry, what?”

“Don’t mind Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says fondly, pressing a tin of baking soda into Sherlock’s hands. “He’s just showing off. There you are, dear. Sodium bicarbonate, or whatever it was you called it.”

“How did you know about my aunt?” John persists.

“I deduced. You’re military, by how you carry yourself, and the wrinkles in your shirt. That’s a military trick, of folding the shirt and then rolling it so it takes up less space in a bag. That and the fact that those trousers have been worn twice tells me that you’re living out of your suitcase. Staying in a hotel here in town, then. Recent discharge from the army, probably because of the wound that gave you that cane. Deeply tanned, but fading now, so about three months back in England, and no tan above the wrists. A military man of this day in age with a tan and a wound, probably Afghanistan or Iraq. Your clothes are all new, and not brand names. You’ve been away long enough that you didn’t have many civilian clothes and had to buy yourself a new wardrobe. Three or four years, and probably longer given your age.

“A man who has been out of the country consistently for upwards of three years isn’t going to have many close friends remaining, so you’ll be staying with family. Either you have no family here in London or you don’t get along with them, thus the hotel, but you’ve spent the past three months with your aunt, in the midlands, given by the color of the two-day-old mud on your shoes.

“You asked about the aunt. I can see by your lower lip that you’re city-bred, but I know already that you’re staying with family in the country. Parents could have moved to the country and gotten a dog since your last visit, more likely it’s country cousins. Your laundry detergent smells of lilacs. A man wouldn’t have picked that out. Has to be a woman, and a grandmother would probably be getting on in years too much for a dog of that size, so an aunt.”

John stares at him, flabbergasted by that rapid-fire relay of information. “And the dog?”

“You’ve been staying somewhere with a dog, given the residual dusting of dog fur on your clothing, but at no point did the dog ever rub up against you, unless you were fastidious about cleaning it off, and I can see by the state of your cuffs that’s not the case. No direct contact with the dog? Allergies aren’t a problem, so you must not like it.” Reaching over, Sherlock plucked one of the aforementioned animal hairs off of John’s collar. John had to resist the urge to snatch it back from him. “I’d say wolfhound, by the size and patterning. Do you have a dislike of all large dogs, or is it your aunt’s dog in particular?”

“You got all that just from looking at me?” John breathes out, impressed. “That’s brilliant.”

Honestly taken aback, Sherlock tips his head at him as though trying to suss out whether he’s being put on. “That’s not what most people say.”

“What do most people say?”

“Piss off.”

“ _Sherlock,_ ” Mrs. Hudson scolds him for the language. 

He’s fascinated by Sherlock, but he feels an accompanying rush of panic. Sherlock just read him like a book, and John has one particular dangerous secret that can’t be found out. 

“What else can you deduce about me?” he asks, worried that his secret is transparent to his new upstairs neighbor. Perhaps he can still back out of signing the lease. Put it off until tomorrow and then claim to have found something else.

“I know that you’re looking for a basement flat with a bomb shelter. Mrs. Hudson has never been able to rent that downstairs flat, and she knows that I was looking for a flatmate, but you didn’t come upstairs to look at 221B. A solitary man might have declined the idea of a flat share outright, but you’re obviously comfortable in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. You aren’t a naturally solitary man. Reserved, but companionable. Why look for a flat alone, then? Your face shows signs of exhaustion, but not insomnia. A military man, recently discharged under traumatic circumstances and troubled by nightmares suggests post-traumatic stress disorder. And what might an unnaturally solitary man with post-traumatic stress disorder want with a basement flat that no one else has ever looked twice at? A non-standard bomb shelter. Quite a unique psychological case you’re providing for your therapist.”

John’s story is solid, or at least solid enough that no logic-minded genius like this one would plausibly consider werewolf as a conclusion. 

“That’s incredible,” he says. “And yes. You’re right. About all of it.”

_Except that my aunt has never owned a dog._

~

John buys a sofa, two wooden chairs, a table, a bed, and a nightstand, and considers himself done.

His flat is awful. He knows that he’s a bachelor, and that bachelor pads are always going to be sparse and a bit depressing. But it isn’t that. A woman’s touch wouldn’t do any good here. No amount of effort could render this place cheery and warm. He doesn’t care. Beneath the floor, set into the dismal concrete of the place is his failsafe: a tiny concrete box where he can lock the wolf if he can’t get away to Shropshire in time. And with a fellow tenant upstairs who can read almost everything about him from a glance, he has to get away to Shropshire in time. 

Once his furniture is delivered and rearranged to his liking, he sits in one of his chairs and stares at the opposite wall. 

_Right. What now?_

Tomorrow he can start looking for a job, and find a therapist in the local area. But it’s still early today, and John wants nothing less than to sit here alone in his dismal little flat. He has no friends in London. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. 

He calls his aunt and Harry, tells them that he’s found a flat and moved in and gives them his new contact information. When he hangs up from the second call, he looks at the clock. Ten minutes have gone by, and he’s exhausted his list of activities for the evening. The book he’s currently reading smiles at him from the nightstand. He hasn’t even started it, and the thought of picking it up right now makes his whole body itch with boredom.

Grabbing his cane, John heads upstairs. Mrs. Hudson seems like the type who’ll talk for hours if you let her. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll be in the mood for an audience. 

But Mrs. Hudson is out, so he continues on up the stairs to flat 221B. The door is open on the most fascinatingly cluttered living room he’s ever seen. It’s as though someone has taken up residence in an old attic and is just a hair short of building themselves a fort out of moth-eaten trunks and dusty books. An irrepressible grin twitching at his lips, John feels inclined to run up a pirate flag amidst this charismatic chaos. It could hang from the horns of the headphoned cow skull on the wall.

“Mr. Holmes?” he calls, tapping at the doorframe while he peeks his head inside. 

He could spend hours here. Two appealing chairs and a sofa of intermediate age sit amidst the mess. He’s surprised to not see any boxes of pizza gaining sentience or mouldering tea cups. Mrs. Hudson’s earlier claim of being _not your housekeeper_ was an empty protestation, unless he misses his guess.

No response. It would be polite to turn and walk away. Leave a man to his privacy. If Sherlock were home, he would have responded. If he is out or upstairs, it will be awkward to be standing in the middle of his living room when he returns. 

John’s just telling himself that when he finds himself stepping across the threshold and into the room.

Is this what it’s like being inside Sherlock’s mind? Some place cozy and cluttered, with brilliant chaos spilling off the shelves? 

“Mr. Holmes?” he calls again, just in case, as he steps around the corner into the kitchen and sees Sherlock sitting at a makeshift laboratory at his kitchen table.

“Sherlock will do,” he responds, not looking up from the microscope. “Borrow your phone?”

“Sorry, I didn’t think you were—what? Oh. Yes, right.” Fumbling his phone out of his pocket, John handed it over. “What are you, some kind of forensic—“

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock takes the phone, flips it over and slides it open, starting to type in a text. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John can’t help a brief laugh at the absurdity of that unbelievable statement. “The police don’t consult amateurs.” 

“No,” Sherlock says. “They don’t. You’re a medical doctor, aren’t you?” Lifting his head from the microscope, Sherlock picks up a folder sitting nearby and pushes it toward John. “Tell me what you think is the cause of death.”

This is much more interesting than sitting alone in his flat. John picks up the folder, leaning against the counter as he looks through it. It has crime scene photos of a young woman dead from what appears to be poisoning. The accompanying notes say as much, but they add that the tests reveal no known poison in her blood.

“Have you checked her medication?” John asks, flipping through the file to see if it’s listed somewhere.

Sherlock pauses. “Her medication?”

“No traces of known poisons, but she has symptoms of poisoning. I’d guess she took some kind of recreational drugs that reacted with her medication. Does this file have her medical history in it somewhere?”

“Page fifteen,” Sherlock says, snatching the folder from him and flipping rapidly through it. “Brilliant!”

“What, really?”

“Hm?” Sherlock looks surprised that John is still there. “Oh, not you. If she’d had recreational drugs in her system, it would have shown up on the tox screen.”

“Right.” John deflates. “What’s brilliant, then?”

“She was on two different prescription medications to keep her alive. Neither one was in her bloodstream. Someone took her off her meds and prevented her from getting more.” Snatching up John’s phone again, Sherlock dials. “Lestrade, it is a murder. Her prescriptions didn’t show up in her bloodstream. Arrest the mother and find the meds. I’ll call you back when I know how she did it.” He hangs up without waiting for confirmation.

John can’t help grinning. “Is it always like this around you?”

“What? Yes.” Abandoning the microscope, Sherlock moves to the couch and flops down on it. “Does it bother you?”

“It’s fantastic. Do you mind if I stay?”

Sherlock waves a hand permissively. “It helps me to have someone to talk to. The skull only attracts attention.”

“The skull—“ John shakes his head and grins. The mental image of Sherlock striding through crime scenes while in serious conversation with the human skull from his mantlepiece is absurdly charming.

Sherlock ignores him completely after that, apparently oblivious to John’s two attempts at conversation, so John finds a copy of the day’s newspaper and settles down to read it.

“There you are, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, making her way up the stairs an hour later. “I made some scones, and thought you boys might like some. Oh, he’s out, is he?”

“Yes.” John smiles, taking the tray from her and setting it on the living room table. “Stay. I’ll make tea.”

It isn’t hard to find his way around Sherlock’s kitchen. The counters are cluttered, but the cupboards are bare. John sets three tea bags in three cups and turns the kettle on.

“You’re keeping an eye on him, are you?” Mrs. Hudson continues. “If he comes out of it, see if you can get him to eat something. I worry.”

“He does this often?”

“Oh, yes. Solving murders, finding lost puppies, all sorts of things. He’s terribly clever.”

John looks over at the almost inhumanly intelligent man laying across the couch. “He’s incredible.”

“He knows we’re talking about him,” Mrs. Hudson remarks, like one would say of a pet. “Sherlock, dear, come take some tea.”

She is ignored, but that doesn’t bother her. Settling down with John over tea, she tells him about some of Sherlock’s recent cases and how brilliantly he solved them, while John reacts with awe and enthusiasm. Once, he thinks he sees Sherlock’s eyes flick toward them in interest, but they’re so low-lidded that he can’t be sure.

~

John spends his free time over the next two days in Sherlock’s flat.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s obvious that he has no problem evicting John when necessary. Once, with no warning, he tells John to get out so he can go to his ‘mind palace’. And then half an hour later he’s hollering for John, in order to ask him to fetch a pen from across the room. 

It’s absurd. But fetching pens and lending his phone are small prices to pay for the pleasure of Sherlock’s flat and Sherlock’s company.

On the third day, Sherlock shows up in his flat at two in the afternoon, while John’s looking over the job postings in the paper, and says “Come on, we’ve got a case.”

“Sorry, what?”

“A case,” Sherlock repeats, grabbing John’s keys from the hook by the door and tossing them at him. “Double suicide. One of them’s probably a murder.” 

_A case._ John can sit here scowling at the job postings, or he can tag along with Sherlock and investigate a murder.

Some decisions make themselves.

Scrambling to his feet, John grabs his coat on the way out the door, both of them whisking past Mrs. Hudson on their way out. 

“Both of you?” she asks, whirled around by their enthusiasm. 

“We have a case, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock calls, indecently thrilled.

~

Sherlock whisks him around the crime scene amidst a bunch of sour-faced police officers who harbor varying degrees of dislike, insults half of them, blatantly shows off, and then abandons John half a mile from the nearest tube station or taxi stand. 

Mood ruined by the latter, John makes his way back to Baker Street alone. He’s annoyed that Sherlock dragged him along when he was utterly useless and ended up being ditched when Sherlock got bored with him. Limp worsened by the time he gets home, he doesn’t even notice that his flat door was unlocked until he’s halfway into the room and sees the man sitting in one of his chairs, drinking tea out of one of John’s cups.

Stunned, John stops and stares at the intruder. Questions spring instantly to his mind, but none of them manages to make it into words.

The man in the chair, wearing a perfectly-tailored suit and a condescending smile, takes a patient sip of his tea and lets the silence draw itself out. “Hello, John.”

John gives him an annoyed smile in return. “What are you doing in my flat?”

“What are you doing with a bomb shelter, Doctor Watson?”

Ignoring that, John maintains the offensive. “Sorry, who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested on whose behalf?”

Another condescending smile. “Sherlock’s.” 

“Right. Why?”

“I worry about him. Why the bomb shelter?”

John shifts his weight, keeping a suspicious scowl directed at the intruder as he tries to figure out what this is all about. “I have post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Yes, and a psychosomatic limp. Your therapist’s notes are very detailed on the topic. And yet, somehow, I can’t understand the bomb shelter.”

“It makes me feel _safe_ ,” John snaps at him. “Why are you stalking Sherlock?”

“He never calls.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Setting down his tea cup, the stranger picks up his umbrella and folds his hands on top of the handle. “There’s something very strange about you that I can’t quite put my finger on, Captain Watson. I would be very interested to find out what it is. Has Sherlock puzzled it out yet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” 

Pushing up from the chair, the man in the suit gives John a last condescending smile and walks past him to the door. John stays where he is. 

“Keep an eye on my brother, won’t you?”

John’s head turns. “Your brother?”

“Mummy gets so worried,” he says, and leaves.

John follows him upstairs and locks the door behind him, checking in on Mrs. Hudson to make sure that she remains unmolested by strange men in expensive suits. She offers to make him a cup of tea, but he declines, making his way upstairs to Sherlock’s empty flat and sitting down in the dark to wait for him.

Sherlock flips on the light when he gets home, gaze already locked on John. “Something happened,” he says. It’s both statement and question. 

“I met your brother,” John says, mouth firm. “At least, I hope he was your brother.”

“Mycroft? Expensive suit that hangs a bit loose due to his recent diet, thinning hair, smug smile?”

“That’s the one, yes.”

“What did he want?”

“I, ah.” John smirks a little. “I think he wants you to call home more often.”

“Yes. He hates that I keep secrets from him. He hates when anyone keeps secrets from him. That’s why he works in the secret service.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s in the government?”

“He _is_ the government.” Deciding that John isn’t in any immediate danger, Sherlock sheds his coat and scarf, beginning to make himself comfortable. “Did he figure out what your secret is?”

The statement is so calm and matter-of-fact that John feels a jolt of utter panic. _Your secret_. And yet, Sherlock is still looking at him, with just enough of a tilt to his head to betray that he’s fascinated and looking for clues.

Sherlock knows that John is hiding something. _Of course he does. He read me like a book._ Just like Mycroft, he can’t quite put his finger on something, and wants to find out what it was. Mycroft’s demeanor was imperious; he hated that John had a secret that he didn’t know. Sherlock’s reaction is much more openly predatory; he’s fascinated by John’s puzzle. It’s just like a case for him. Giving Sherlock a mystery is like giving a child a wrapped gift. Working it open is the best part.

And once he does, what then? 

John knows exactly how much he doesn’t want the British Government finding out his secret. But Sherlock? He’s not sure just how bad that would be. Would Sherlock want to study him, like an experiment? Would he lose all interest in John, as a puzzle that had been already worked out? 

He’s risking everything by staying here and spending time in Sherlock’s flat. Nothing could be more of a risk than putting himself in close quarters with a man who spends his life working out impossible puzzles. Sooner or later he’s going to figure out that the ridiculously improbable solution of _werewolf_ is the only real answer.

“No,” John replies. “He didn’t.”

“Hm.” Sherlock drops into his chair and stares at him, actively trying to work it out. It’s unnerving.

“What happened with the case?” John asks. 

“What case? Oh. That case. Lovers’ suicide pact. Dull.” Sherlock’s intense scrutiny doesn’t waver.

John stares flatly back at him. “Can you not do that?”

“Not do what?”

“Try to puzzle out my deepest secret right in front of me like this. It’s… rude.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks and drops his steepled hands into his lap. He looks around the flat. “I haven’t got anything else to do.”

“Violin,” John suggests.

Sherlock grunts.

“You could tidy up.”

Another grunt.

“Either find something to do other than deducing at me, or I’ll go back to my flat,” John says, fully expecting to go back to his flat. He can’t imagine Sherlock actually cares one way or the other about his presence.

So it’s a surprise when Sherlock immediately gets up and fetches his violin. He’s still got a bit of a sulk about it, but John is absolutely flabbergasted that he has any amount of influence over Sherlock, after only three days and being ditched at the crime scene like a bad date.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has a happy johnlock ending. Just in case you doubt that at any point. I assure you: happy johnlock ending.

On their third case, John misplaces his cane somewhere in between chasing and being chased around Hyde Park by a murderer. Sherlock points it out to him once they get home, which reduces both of them into giggles for no particular reason.

But that reminds him of Sebastian—starry nights under the endless sky in Afghanistan, and giggling over terrible in-jokes—and how bad things can get. John’s giggles go cold and die in his chest.

Sherlock also goes quiet, but says nothing.

“Right,” John says, pushing off the wall and heading up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. “Do you ever have unsolved cases? You must have unsolved cases.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock scowls. “Usually thanks to the police trampling over the evidence.”

That makes John smile, although he doesn’t doubt that it’s at least partly true. John has a high opinion of the competence of the Met, but he can understand how sometimes Sherlock’s style obstructs police investigations and vice versa.

John makes them tea, and sits with Sherlock, who is buzzing with impatient energy and demanding that someone bring him his next case.

“You’ve only just finished one,” John points out.

“That was an hour ago,” Sherlock whines.

John shrugs and sips his tea.

“Do you have friends?” John asks, suddenly curious.

Sherlock’s head turns toward him, regarding him blankly.

“I’m serious. In the week that I’ve known you, I’ve seen you be barely tolerable toward DI Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson and myself, completely intolerable to anyone else, and friendly to no one. Do you have friends?”

“Emotional attachments are useless,” Sherlock says, returning his attention to the air in front of him.

“No, they’re not.”

“Alone is what I have,” Sherlock says. It sounds like a mantra. “Alone protects me.”

“Friends protect people,” John corrects him. 

He doesn’t get a response.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sherlock looks over again, face still as blank as before.

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you were wrong. I just meant… I’m your friend, Sherlock.”

Sherlock considers him for a long moment before returning his attention to his experiment. “I don’t have friends.”

John leaves it at that for a few minutes before his curiosity gets the best of him again. “No girlfriends, either?”

“No.”

“Boyfriends? Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“Boyfriends, then.”

“No.” Sherlock petulantly refuses to raise his head for this conversation.

“Right.”

Instead of settling into another not-quite-sulky silence, Sherlock’s head begins to tilt, and he re-calibrates his attention onto John. “What about you, John? Girlfriends?”

Oh, _damn_. He just gave Sherlock a new clue to puzzle over. “No.”

“Boyfriends?”

“Not gay, no.”

“The young lady we questioned at the King George seemed to find you very attractive.”

“Did she?” John says, clamming up as much as possible.

“You found her attractive, as well.”

“She was all right, I suppose.” She was gorgeous. But John can’t date. He can’t ever date. It’s too much of a risk for his partner.

“Oh? What’s your type, then?” Sherlock is not letting go of this train of questioning now that he’s found it.

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I’m your friend,” Sherlock wheedles. The manipulative bastard.

John has to tell him _something_. He considers misleading Sherlock into believing he has some sort of sexually transmitted infection, but he suspects Sherlock would probably find a way to run tests on him without his knowledge. 

“My last relationship went badly,” John says, honestly. “I’m not ready to try again.” He supposes that’s true, as well. It’s not something he’s given any thought. Dating isn’t an option. Whether or not he’s hypothetically gotten over what happened in Afghanistan is irrelevant. 

“Ah.” Sherlock’s inquiry has reached a dead end. John’s safe, for the moment.

~

When the full moon comes around, John returns to Shropshire for the weekend. He tells Sherlock that he’s going to visit his aunt, but doesn’t think Sherlock was listening. 

Drained and exhausted as usual, John heads to 221C as soon as he gets home, planning on showering and scrubbing away any possible additional clues before Sherlock sees him, but Sherlock appears like magic, scanning him. “You went to Shropshire.”

“I did tell you. I wasn’t sure if you were listening.”

“How’s the dog?”

“Same as ever.”

Sherlock peers at him. He knows that Shropshire is crucial to the thing he can’t figure out about John. He still can’t figure it out.

Ignoring the way Sherlock is following at his heels like a clingy pet, John hangs up his coat and drops his bag in his room before crossing his arms and rounding on him. “I didn’t bring back any clues with me. And I’d like to shower now.”

“Why do you go to Shropshire?” Sherlock asks, mystified.

“To visit my aunt.”

“You’re showing signs of exhaustion.”

“I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

Sherlock just keeps studying. John shuts the bathroom door in his face.

~

On the second full moon, Sherlock follows him to Shropshire. 

John walks in the door only to find Sherlock already sitting at the table, sipping tea with John’s favorite aunt. He stops short. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles brightly at him. “Ah, John. There you are. We were just talking about you.”

“Were you,” John says, without inflection.

“Your partner is very charming,” Aunt Alice says, patting Sherlock’s hand. “I can see why you like him so much.”

“My _partner_? He’s not my partner. We’re just friends. And Sherlock was just leaving.”

Realizing that Sherlock was not supposed to be here, and that he had misled her accordingly, Aunt Alice’s demeanor chilled. “I’ll just give the two of you a moment.”

“Not okay, Sherlock,” John said, glaring down at him. “You have to stop this. You have to leave it.”

Sherlock frowns. He’s never in his life left a case alone unless he was absolutely certain he couldn’t solve it. 

“I have to keep this secret, Sherlock. If you don’t let it go, I will find somewhere else to live.”

Expression briefly hurt and confused, like a kicked puppy, Sherlock shuts it all behind his usual mask and stands. “I’ll just get my things.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

Sherlock considers him. “She told me that she worries about you. She said that you’ve had a rough time of it, since you got back from Afghanistan. She thinks you need someone. No details that are useful to me, no. I didn’t have time.”

“Get your things,” John says.

Walking out of the kitchen, Sherlock pauses in the doorframe. “She doesn’t have a dog.”

~

Sherlock leaves off the stalking upon his return, at least long enough for John to shower and sleep. 

Making his way upstairs the next morning, John finds his housemate scanning the newspaper looking for interesting cases. Sherlock’s head tilts slightly when John enters, in the way John knows means that he’s paying complete attention to John while pretending he isn’t.

“All right?” John says.

Sherlock suddenly does a better job pretending that he’s not paying attention to John. “I still don’t know what you’re hiding, if that’s what you mean.”

“Will you leave it?”

Frowning, Sherlock steeples his hands and thinks about it. “No. But I can promise to take no action in order to pursue it, and I will continue to obstruct all of Mycroft’s efforts to figure you out. Any clues you provide unwittingly are fair game.”

It’s the best that can be hoped for, under the circumstances, although the caveat about Mycroft isn’t particularly comforting. As long as there are no more unexpected appearances at his aunt’s house in Shropshire, it’s acceptable. John needs Shropshire.

~

John is the last to realize that he’s all but mated Sherlock.

Mycroft teases them about their relationship. Greg makes the occasional skeptical joke, while his entire force just goes ahead and assumes they’re a couple. Even Mrs. Hudson is constantly ‘forgetting’ that the two of them are straight and asexual, respectively.

John corrects them all, every time, with his hereditary Watson stubbornness. While Sherlock, who compulsively corrects everyone about everything and seems to get more raw glee from doing so than from almost any other one thing in his life, just lets them assume and doesn’t say a word. 

It’s maddening. John has no idea what they’re all seeing. Can’t two men be close friends without people making stupid assumptions? 

It isn’t a problem until John figures out that the first one who got the wrong idea about their relationship was the wolf.

Women frequently flirt with one or the other of them while they’re on cases. John doesn’t mind when they flirt with him; he can just politely deflect them. But it irritates him when they flirt with Sherlock. He thinks this is irritation on Sherlock’s behalf. Sherlock dislikes that kind of attention, and it annoys John to watch women throwing themselves uselessly after Sherlock. Even Molly’s feeble flirtations get on his nerves.

John likes Molly. He does. It’s just that every time she makes an overture of flirtation toward Sherlock—regardless of whether or not John’s in the room, because apparently she’s the only person in London who didn’t get the memo—John twitches. He feels sorry for her, that’s all. She’s so desperately infatuated, and Sherlock doesn’t even notice her.

She’s trying to ask Sherlock out on a date, which Sherlock is just not getting, when she puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It’s very light and very chaste, just trying to get Sherlock’s attention long enough that she can get _I mean like a date_ through his head, when John _snarls_ at her.

Sherlock and Molly both stare at him. John wants to stare at himself.

He just snarled at Molly. Full-on animalistic snarl. Completely out of character and very audible.

Molly squeaks and excuses herself. 

Sherlock keeps staring. He has an expression of baffled fascination, as though he can’t decide whether this bizarre new information is relevant to the existing secret he can’t work out, or if it’s some entirely new mystery. 

John knows exactly what it means. He’s been wrong. He’s been very wrong. Just because John thinks they aren’t a couple doesn’t mean that his wolf side understands and agrees. His irritation around Molly and the other women and men who flirt with Sherlock isn’t on Sherlock’s behalf. He’s jealous. The wolf in him thinks that Sherlock is his mate.

Sherlock is still staring.

“Don’t,” John tells him. “Sorry. She was trying to ask you out on a date, Sherlock.”

Head moving very slightly, Sherlock just kept watching him, waiting to find out why this is the explanation John offers.

“I slept poorly and I’m cranky,” John says, which is true. “I didn’t want to see that. I’m going to go apologize to Molly.”

He can see the gears working in Sherlock’s head as he tries to figure it out. Not waiting around, John grabs his coat and goes to find Molly.

He should leave. Run far, run fast. If the wolf thinks Sherlock is his mate, then they’re both in danger. He should move out and leave no forwarding address. Go back to Shropshire and become the dull country doctor. Safer for everyone.

Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t let him go, and would track him down in Shropshire. But it’s unlikely. Sherlock’s too proud for that. It would only take a light bruise to Sherlock’s pride on John’s way out the door to prevent it completely.

Resolved, John starts packing that night. But Sherlock interrupts him with a new case, and he goes. Tomorrow, he’ll start packing. Tomorrow, he’ll leave.

He doesn’t.

He does, however, do the next best thing. He figures out how to confuse the wolf’s instincts.

The next time a girl smiles at him, John asks her out. He dates her for a month, is a perfect gentleman, makes excuses about wanting to take things slow, and then breaks up with her. And does the same thing with the next girl.

Half the time, they break up with him first. It never takes long for them to get fed up with constantly being ditched when Sherlock calls. The few sweet, patient girls who don’t get fed up make John’s heart ache with guilt. He breaks up with them as close as possible to the full moon, and lives with his guilt. 

It works. Serial dating is emotionally exhausting, but it works. It confuses the fuck out of his wolf. 

John feels a perpetually confused sense of possessive jealousy that swings wildly between his girlfriends and Sherlock, never settling. When someone flirts with Sherlock, half the time John feels nothing but exhausted relief. 

Sherlock hates the serial dating as much as the wolf. He snipes vindictively at John’s dates, sulks extravagantly whenever John won’t cancel on them, and complains and mocks non-stop. But that’s fine. John can deal with him sulking. It’s better than risking a repeat of what happened in Afghanistan. 

Some days, when Sherlock’s gone out on a case without him and the house is empty, John sits in his cold, dark flat, and is honest with himself.

He’s in love with Sherlock. Sherlock, who thinks emotional attachments are irrational and dangerous. Sherlock, who is probably a virgin based on his own behavior and Mycroft’s mocking jests. Sherlock, who will never, ever be interested in a romantic relationship.

That’s good. That’s safe. As long as John’s in love with the unattainable Sherlock Holmes, he can’t fall in love with anyone else. He can date a hundred women to keep the wolf confused, and he can spend every month in Shropshire, locked in a bomb shelter, while the wolf rages and howls and rots.

And that’s the other thing: he’s dying.

Sebastian told him that werewolves have to fuck or kill on the full moon, and preferably both. He had known that to go without was draining, and that a werewolf who could be with a regular mate on the full moon was almost tame. That was all either of them knew. And now John could speak from personal experience about how draining it was to lock yourself up in a concrete cell over the full moon.

The wolf in Sebastian had thought that John was his mate, and that had ended in a massacre. Sebastian had killed humans every full moon. Sometimes he raped them. 

Those aren’t risks John is willing to take.

Which means that he’s dying. Every full moon it’s worse. But so what? At least if he dies, the wolf in him won’t kill anyone else.

He can feel it. Things in him that were healthy a mere few months ago are starting to strain. It might just be a reaction to the lycanthropy itself, and not the captivity, but the urge to shift and run wild is so strong he can taste it.

By day he’s fine. He can forget. Eat healthy. Take care of his body. Try to make a plan for what to do when he can’t take care of himself. At this rate, he has a year.

By night, he tries to sleep in between the bloodlust and the nightmares.

Sherlock is his only distraction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has been a streak of wild animal attacks in the vicinity of Dartmoor. The locals describe the creature as a gigantic hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to bestiality and rape this chapter, and to a lesser extent in the subsequent chapters.

The case comes in on a perfectly ordinary Saturday morning.

A woman in her fifties with a resolute expression sits in the client chair in the middle of the room and clutches her purse. “I have come to you because no one else will listen,” she begins.

“Start at the beginning,” Sherlock says, impatient. “In your own words.”

“There has been a streak of wild animal attacks in the vicinity of Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes. The authorities claim it’s the work of an escaped zoo animal, but they decline to specify which zoo. I do not think any wild animal is capable of … this. I heard you take unusual cases, Mr. Holmes.”

“I don’t see what’s unusual about a spate of wild animal attacks.”

Making tea in the kitchen, John is suddenly all rapt attention. He knows that werewolves are rare. They have to be rare. Random sprees of wild animal killings get noticed in England. Mycroft would notice that sort of thing. If there was any kind of government cover up, Mycroft would know about it. And if Mycroft knew the first thing about werewolves, he would suss out John’s secret in an instant. So werewolves must be incredibly rare. And John only knows of one other werewolf in England.

He wants to ask her if any handsome, psychopathic, former military colonels have moved into the area lately. Really, he’s surprised he’s gone this long without hearing word of Sebastian. This has to be him.

And if it is, John has to kill him.

“My daughter was killed by this wild animal, Mr. Holmes.”

“My condolences,” Sherlock says, without feeling.

“She was raped first.”

At that, John abandons the tea preparation and comes into the living room. “The police aren’t doing anything about it?”

“The police won’t talk to me. I have no idea if it’s an anomaly. The coroner told me that… that… and now the coroner won’t talk to me, either. I want to know the truth, Mr. Holmes. If it is a wild animal, I want it put down. If it’s human, I want it brought to justice. Can you help?”

“I’ll go,” John says, before Sherlock can answer. 

The woman looks uncomfortable. “And you are?”

“Captain John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces,” John says, offering his most impressive credentials.

“My most trusted man,” Sherlock adds. He looks up at John, more curious about his eagerness than the case itself, and then nods. “He’ll take care of your case for you. Just as well. I’m very busy. Can’t leave London at this time.”

John almost can’t believe his luck. He’s desperate to keep Sherlock off this case. And it just so happens that Sherlock is busy and not interested.

~

John hasn’t been to Dartmoor since he went on a school trip as a child. There’s a raw, uncivilized beauty to it. Four hours from London, and he may as well have gone to the moon. The moor is huge and desolate. It reminds him of Afghanistan, only wet.

He pulls off to the side of the road and looks over the National Park. The wolf in him whines and howls to be let out. All that free, open space. All those rabbits to catch. All that running to do.

 _And if we found a person,_ John asks his wolf, _what would we do with it?_

The wolf whines at him. It isn’t an answer. Neither of them has an answer. 

_If I roamed free, how many people would I kill?_

There are too many towns within range of the moor. A wolf could easily run the length of it in a night. But there are no wolves in England anymore. _Only us._

He starts in the town where the woman lost her daughter. Sherlock could no doubt follow any number of obscure clues from here, but John needs his clues to be a little more overt. 

He talks to people. The locals are glad to tell him stories of the black dog of the moor, affectionately called the Hound. In different villages, he hears different stories about it. Some say it’s a benevolent protector and a spirit of the moors, but that lately it has become angered and begun killing. Others claim it was always a beast of the devil, and that lately it has returned. One particular story he hears over and over again, in different shades:

“I never believed in the Hound, me. I’m not the sort. But lately, by nights when it’s clear out, you hear him howling. I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but that’s no earthly wolf howl, that one. I’ve heard wolf howls on the telly, you know? This isn’t a wolf howl.”

“It’s deeper and rougher,” John prompts, the third time he hears this same story. “With a rasp like a tiger’s roar.”

The barkeep he’s talking to draws back and stares at him, bald fear in his eyes. “You’ve heard it, then?”

“I’ve heard it,” John confirms. People can fake a story, but they can’t fake fear like that. John’s seen too much real fear in his life to mistake it. There’s a werewolf here in Dartmoor.

“I’ve seen it,” says a fresh-faced university boy, home on holidays, but he doesn’t have any of the braggadocio that should naturally accompany a nineteen-year-old boy recounting ghost stories. “Near as big as a horse. People will tell you that the eyes glow, but they don’t. Not any more than other animals. I came home for my brother’s funeral last month, and the howling… I couldn’t sleep. But once, the howling was so close, I pulled open the curtains and I saw it. Up there on the tor, with the moon behind it like something out of a movie. 

“Round here,” he warns, “people don’t go walking after dark, not even armed and not even in a group. But that doesn’t matter, half the time. It can get into your house and drag you out, screaming. That’s what happened to my brother. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but nothing _natural_ drags people out of their houses and rapes them to death on the moor.”

The police won’t talk to him at all. No matter what he tries, they just shoo him away or ignore him. The only one who bothers talking to him at all says, “You’re wasting your time, city boy. Some wild dog is playing on the local superstition, that’s all. We’ll catch it. Go home.”

But he has no real leads. He doesn’t have any idea where to start. Eyewitness accounts blend into speculation and superstition, so he can’t get a reliable estimate of when the attacks started. Anywhere from two years to two months, which may or may not rule out Sebastian. 

He sits in his room at the inn and checks his gun. He has one clip of silver-plated bullets, that he has to wear gloves to load and unload. When he first got back to London, he had them custom-made for his handgun. The shop proprietor regarded him oddly, but John paid in cash, so he didn’t ask any questions. They’re only silver-plated. They’ll fire just fine, and any amount of silver in the blood will kill a werewolf. His other option is the syringe of silver colloid that he keeps in a little wooden box. Both the bullets and the syringe were acquired in case the bomb shelter didn’t work out for him. John hadn’t taken them out since he moved into 221C, but he needs them now.

He has to kill the Hound of Dartmoor. If it’s Sebastian, he can’t hesitate. Because if it’s Sebastian, he won’t get a second chance. 

When night falls, he goes out to hunt the Hound. The innkeeper warns him against it, but John just pays up the room for the next couple of days in advance, and tells him not to worry. 

Out on the moor, the waxing moon is bright and the skies are clear. The kind of night where the Hound is said to walk. John keeps his gun within reach, and sets into a light jog down one of the paths. It feels fantastic, although the wolf is itching to get out of his skin. John feels closer to it, out here, with nothing but the stars above and the wild moor for company. And somewhere out there, another werewolf.

 _Come and get me, you bastard_. 

He jogs on and off for hours before he turns back toward the inn. The moor itself is awake and alive with nocturnal creatures who have learned that the world is safe from humans at night, but there is no sight or sound of the Hound.

Exhausted, he shows himself back to his room at the inn and lays on his back on the bed. Nothing. No clues, no leads, nothing. He’s probably missing something, which would seem absurdly simple if Sherlock were here. 

_Given the range of the attacks_ —of which John has nothing like a comprehensive list— _and the hunting habits of the werewolf_ —of which he doesn’t think _anyone_ has comprehensive knowledge— _you’re clearly looking for the werewolf who turned you._

John does a poor job at being Sherlock. 

Thinking of Sherlock, he realizes that he hasn’t heard from his friend all day, and checks his phone. Must have some case occupying his mind so he barely notices that John is gone. 

Meanwhile, John has got nothing but regrets and an aching heart.

~

In the morning, he visits more towns, and talks to more people, hoping that any one of them will provide a substantial clue. Nothing. He goes out onto the moor again after lunch, taking a different path and looking for werewolf tracks or markings. Anything to assure him that he’s not chasing a phantom.

Once, he feels sure that he _smells_ wolf. But he doesn’t have the first clue how to track by that. The wolf inside him does, but John can’t risk letting it out.

When he gets back to the inn, feeling defeated, he walks through the door and stops. 

At the little pub attached to the inn, there’s a dark-skinned man sitting at a table near the back who happens to be looking straight at John. And John knows before he sees him that this is a werewolf. His heart drops into his throat with fear and adrenaline, but he walks calmly across the room and takes a seat at the table.

The Hound is a tall, handsome man, all dark muscles and a too-bright smile. He holds himself like a soldier, and John sees the chain of his dog tags still around his neck. “I think you’ve been looking for me.”

John tries to think like Sherlock. If he’s been here for months or years, then he’s ex-military, not just on leave. If he’s ex-military, that means he probably got the curse in Afghanistan, just like John and Sebastian. Earned himself a discharge, and then headed to one of the few places in England where a wolf could run safely. And then started raping and murdering across the countryside.

Not just on the full moon, either. 

Sebastian had only ever shifted on the full moon. He may have been an amoral psychopath, but he wasn’t like this. The reports around Dartmoor weren’t of a Hound that appeared and killed once a month. They were of a hound that appeared whenever the moon was out and sometimes when it wasn’t. 

“Why?” John asks.

“Why?” the Hound repeats. “Why what?”

“Why do it every chance you get? You’re killing people. Rape and murder once or twice a week. Why?”

The pub is mostly empty, and no one is near their table in the back, but John keeps his voice quiet. People can’t know about this. The world is safer not knowing about werewolves, as long as there are so few in existence, and any back-up that John called would only get themselves killed.

“How can you not know?” the Hound’s brow furrows with fascinated bemusement. “I know what you are. I can smell you. Can’t you feel it, the constant urge to shift? Every single night, that temptation to just let yourself go. And the rush when you do. Running wild through the night, the alpha predator. How can you feel that rush and ask me 'why'?"

“It’s a drug for you,” John says. “You let the wolf take over and now you’re addicted.”

The Hound laughs. He’s got a wide, disarming smile and a relaxed confidence in his spine. Just like Sebastian. John knows exactly how dangerous that kind of charisma can be. “So? I’m in control.”

“You’re not. Doesn’t it bother you at all, that you’re murdering people?”

Jutting his lower lip in thought, the Hound shakes his head. “I’ve killed people before. Civilians died in Afghanistan at my hands in Her Majesty’s service. Seems fair that I balance the scales with some of her own. Too many people in the world, after all. Seven billion. What’s a few less?”

He can’t stop thinking about Sebastian. Brilliant, amoral psychopath Sebastian, who joked lightly about the men and women he had raped and always cheated at cards. At least Sebastian had used his curse to tactical advantage and set up situations that minimized civilian casualties. 

Sebastian, who was never more brilliant and alive than when he had the blood of the men he’d just tortured on his hands. Sebastian, who would always put himself in danger before he would risk any of his men.

 _I will not put one of my men in danger to protect the enemy._

Loyalty. That was the one trait Sebastian had that kept him from being a true psychopath. Without it, ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran would be just like this man sitting across from John, only a thousand times more deadly. Sebastian was a gifted tactician. The Hound is a reckless idiot.

John doesn’t want to be here at this table, having this conversation. The Hound is bigger than him, and John can’t exactly shoot a man in the middle of a pub. He doesn’t know how to handle the situation, so he does the only thing he can: stall, and keep him talking.

“Is it the curse that makes you a psychopath, or is it because you’re a psychopath that you earned yourself the curse?” John asks.

The Hound laughs again. He doesn’t take offense at the insult. “You know what I think is interesting?”

Tensing defensively, John nods his chin toward him to indicate his attention.

“I can smell arousal all over you. Is it the man who turns you on, or the werewolf?”

Well, there’s a punch to the gut. “You remind me of my mate,” John says, which is accurate enough.

“Your mate is a werewolf?” That’s genuine surprise on the Hound’s face. It means he doesn’t know any more than Sebastian did: Sebastian said that werewolves always mated humans, and that two werewolves would always fight. But what happens if your mate bites you and turns you into a wolf? 

“Is a werewolf. Was my mate.” John leaves it at that. He is not sharing his history with this monster. “You have to stop this. The government is going to take notice. They’ll send special forces to catch you.”

“They tried.” The Hound shrugs, utterly unconcerned. “Can’t catch something that doesn’t exist.”

“They’ll keep trying. We aren’t invulnerable.”

“What am I supposed to do?” The Hound sneers at him. “I can kill once a month, sure, live a little longer, hide a little better. But I’ve gone like this far longer than I ever expected, and none of them can touch me. What shall I do, ship myself off to the wilds of Siberia where I can’t kill anything but reindeer?”

“Yes,” John says. 

“No. I’m not cut out for hermitry. We may be superhuman now, we still need humans. Can’t mate a reindeer.”

“Do you have a mate?” John asks, feeling a chill go through him at the thought that this murderer might have some kidnapped human “mate” chained up somewhere.

“Not currently. They keep dying.”

“I’ll stop you,” John promises.

The Hound laughs. He seems to find John inordinately amusing. “I’m twice your size, little puppy. And you smell sick. Weak.”

Lots of people are twice John’s size, or nearly. Sebastian was, and John knows without question that he would have lost any fight he picked with Sebastian. But this is not Sebastian. The Hound isn’t half as deadly as Sebastian. And the Hound has to be stopped.

“Last chance to move to Siberia,” John tells him.

“I look forward to killing you, little wolf,” the Hound says. “You can’t catch me as a human, and you’re too small and weak to kill me as a wolf. Too bad we’re not pack animals. You’d be amusing to keep around.”

Giving John a little mock-salute, the Hound rises from the table and walks out of the inn. 

John checks the gun tucked into his waistband. Still there. But he can’t shoot the Hound while they’re still in town. He has to meet the Hound on the moor in order to kill him. Which seems to be what the Hound wants.

He follows.

“John.”

Spinning around, John feels his heart stop for a moment, because it’s Sherlock. Here. He walks up from around the corner of the house, eyes following the direction that the Hound is going. 

“Sherlock,” John gasps. “What are you doing here?”

“Eavesdropping.” Sherlock steps around him and after the Hound, expecting John to follow. “I was curious about the case. It didn’t occur to me that I was breaking my promise until it was too late.”

John quickens his pace to keep up, although the Hound has a head start on them and is starting to jog. He’s as tall as Sherlock and much more muscular. They aren’t going to be able to catch up. “You heard.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s brows knit together in puzzlement, and he looks over at John. “Werewolves. Was that true?”

“It’s true.” 

“That’s why your aunt doesn’t have a dog.”

“She has never had a dog.”

“And that’s why you need the bomb shelter. To prevent… this.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where he’s going?” Sherlock asks. The Hound’s lead is growing. 

“The moors. He wants me to follow and fight him. If I don’t… I have a feeling he’s going to cause a massacre.” _That’s what happened last time I defied the wishes of a werewolf. He taught me a lesson._

“Fight him.” Sherlock repeats. “As a wolf.”

John stops walking. He hadn’t thought that part through. He can’t shift, because he can’t control it. But if he doesn’t shift, he won’t be able to catch up. The wolf will get away. “I can’t control the wolf form,” John says, mouth dry. 

“Can you predict what it will do?” Sherlock suggests.

Two werewolves will always fight. And Sebastian placed great value on the ability to give his wolf self missions by focusing on them for days in advance. If John shifts, he will seek out the other werewolf and fight it to the death. 

And then what? Think, John.

Sebastian’s wolf form always had a sense of a home base to return to, but Sebastian’s wolf also often took the opportunity to hunt after a mission, before returning home. It isn’t the full moon, which means John can theoretically control the transformation, and change back at will, although he has never transformed away from the full moon. Every part of this is a huge risk. 

But if he doesn’t, they risk the Hound causing a massacre like the one Sebastian created in Afghanistan. 

Starting to walk again, John takes the gun from his waistband and puts it into Sherlock’s hands. “I know for certain that I’ll seek out and kill the other wolf, or die trying. I know that the wolf form is almost as smart as a human, and that will work to my advantage. He’s reckless and overconfident. I’m not. The bullets in that gun are silver plated. As far as I know, the slightest wound will kill either one of us. Silver is the cure for lycanthropy, but it’s not a cure anyone survives.”

Once they’re out of sight of the village, John stops. “Tell me that you have another plan.”

“I don’t know enough about werewolf behavior. Your predictions are more accurate than mine. I know who he is and where he lives. Easy enough to lay a trap for him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. When he might be planning on a massacre tonight.”

John begins to undress. “I can’t predict my behavior other than fighting him. You should be safe. I know that the wolf is intelligent and that it recognizes its mate. It thinks you’re its mate, so you may even be able to tame and control me. If I’m a risk to you or anyone else, shoot me. _Don’t_ let me get close enough to bite you.”

Sherlock checks the gun and the bullets, making himself comfortable with the use of it. His eyebrow quirks in interest at being called John’s _mate_ , but he does’t comment on it. “I understand.”

Setting his clothing in a neat little stack on top of his shoes, John puts twenty feet of distance between them. Sherlock stays put.

_Find the enemy wolf. Kill him._

Turning his head in the direction of the Hound, John focuses on that one thought,

and _shifts._


	4. Chapter 4

_The world forms itself in a blur of pain._

_Night, cool. Wind, brisk._

_Outside._

_He is outside! There is no concrete box. There is dirt and sky and freedom!_

_Oh, and the smells! There are so many lovely smells. Rabbit and squirrel and deer and…_

_And his mate! His mate is here, standing by the other self’s cast-off skins._

_There is freedom and his mate. Everything is_ wonderful _._

_The wolf lopes over to his mate, looking for signs of acceptance. His mate meets his gaze as if in challenge, and stays put. Approaching at an angle, the wolf takes great gusts of breath, scenting his mate and the outside world. His mate makes complicated noises with its mouth, and squats down so that their heads are level as it extends a paw to the wolf in greeting._

_Sniffing and licking at the paw, the wolf pushes past it, scenting his mate’s body. Its outer skins smell of sheep and chemicals, obscuring the much more interesting scents of his body. So many smells! Soap and sweat and musk and breath and—_

_Another wolf howls, somewhere across the moor._

_The enemy._

__Kill the enemy wolf.

_Very important. The other self is fixated on this thing. Kill the other wolf. It is a danger._

_His mate is carrying the poisoned weapon. They will hunt together. They will kill the rival wolf._

_The wolf pulls itself away and trots ahead, looking back to see if his mate follows._

_It does. It carries the poisoned weapon so that it is ready for use. Good. It understands. They hunt._

_The wolf runs ahead, finding the scent and following it. He doubles back every so often to make certain his mate is on the right track. His mate is slow and clumsy on this terrain, but beautiful. The wolf wants him._

_First they must kill the other wolf._

_Another howl. He is on the right track. Pausing, the wolf sounds a howl in response. A summons. A challenge._

_Come to me. You think you can kill me? Come find out._

_The enemy meets him at the crest of a hill. Massive and fearless, the enemy holds the high ground and growls in threat. He thinks the wolf will cower in submission, or that this fight will be easy because of their size difference. He is wrong._

_The wolf launches himself at his enemy. They meet in a snarl of teeth. The force of his jump is enough to push the enemy back a few feet, taking the high ground from him in one move._

_All of the advantages belong to the enemy. This is the enemy’s territory. The wolf’s body is untested outdoors or in fighting, while the enemy has hunted for many moons. And the enemy is gigantic. But the enemy has underestimated the wolf, and he will regret that._

_The wolf holds his ground, fighting relentlessly. Both wolves take a medley of scratches and bites, neither one giving way._

_This is not a fight he can win. The wolf knows that. He can hold the fight, but he cannot win it. He needs his mate._

_Feigning weakness, the wolf begins slowing down, and reacting to each new bite and scratch with whimpers. His enemy believes it, and attacks with renewed energy. Keeping at it only long enough so that he will be convincing, the wolf suddenly turns and bolts._

_Let the enemy think that he is fleeing. The enemy does not know he has a mate, and they are upwind. He will not know until it is too late._

_The enemy’s stride is longer, but the wolf has better reflexes. He zig-zags, using the rough terrain to his advantage, and makes his way back to where he thinks the mate will be. Approaching from the side so that the enemy will not see his mate, the wolf pivots and faces the enemy, with the mate behind him and to the side._

_As soon as the enemy realizes the trap, his attack turns away from the wolf (dangerous, angry, capable of holding his ground) and focuses on his mate (weak, scrawny, human). Snarling, the enemy leaps._

_The wolf leaps to intercept him, and the poisoned weapon gives a great bark. When the wolf and his enemy hit the ground, the enemy has begun to make horrible whining whimpers as his body convulses. The wolf backs away quickly, wary of touching the poisoned blood._

_He moves to his mate’s side, defending him and watching as the enemy twitches and writhes on the ground. The enemy’s claws clutch at the earth, body shifting between human and wolf as the poison does its work._

_It is not a quick death._

_His mate reaches out to him, after some time, resting its paw on the back of his neck. If the grip was a little tighter, it would be a gesture of dominance. The wolf does not think his mate knows this._

_When the body is almost entirely human, and the only sounds are wet, dying gasps, his mate approaches their enemy. The poisoned weapon gives another bark. The enemy stops moving._

_His mate speaks to him, and strides off across the moor. The wolf follows, keeping pace with him. As they walk, his mate makes an ongoing string of noises. It does not seem to mind that the wolf does not understand. The wolf likes the noises his mate makes. They have a pleasant rumble to them._

_Confident and determined, his mate leads them back to where they started. Because his mate is so certain of their destination, the wolf follows without hesitation. When they have returned, his mate squats before him again, reaching out and petting his head._

_It is a strange sensation, being petted. The wolf likes it._

_His mate ruffles his ears, then stands again, walking to the little pile of skins that belongs to the other self and pointing at it._

_The wolf understands. He is expected to change back._

_He turns away, looking out across the moor. All those beautiful smells. So many rabbits to be hunted. All that freedom._

_He whines. His mate makes stern noises._

_Hanging his head dejectedly, the wolf sets his shoulders_

and shifts.

~

The change always hurts.

He has no concept of how long it goes on for or how it works other than what he remembers seeing the rare times Sebastian shifted in his sight. If he screams, he is too far gone to be aware of it.

When John comes to himself, he is on his knees in the dirt. It is still night. 

“John,” Sherlock says, voice steady.

John’s head whips up. Sherlock’s standing a few feet away, calm and undamaged. 

His memories of the full moon are there, but barely accessible. They’re like wisps of smoke in his mind. He remembers fighting the other wolf. He remembers how good Sherlock smells. _Oh, god._

“What happened?” he manages to say.

“You fought the other werewolf and led him back to me. I shot him and made sure he was dead. You were correct in saying the silver is a cure that no one survives. I brought you back here and you followed at my side. You behaved like a very intelligent tame dog, and even shifted back on command.”

John struggles to his feet and begins to dress. “I didn’t try to…”

Sherlock waits to see if he’s going to finish that sentence.

“I didn’t hurt you?” John amends.

“You were completely obedient. The worst you did was whine and give me dejected glances when I told you to change back.”

“… Right.” He didn’t hurt Sherlock. That’s good. But Sebastian hadn’t hurt John the first time he’d seen the wolf, either. Hadn’t done anything more than sniff at him. That hadn’t prevented what happened later.

This didn’t change anything. If anything, John had learned that the curse could be an addiction. 

“What about the body?” John asks.

“There’s little enough evidence to connect it to us, even if someone saw you follow him out of town. Unfortunately, the silver bullets will make the particulars of the case unusual enough that it may catch Mycroft’s notice. He’s going to connect the dots of lycanthropy back to you quickly enough.”

“And then?”

“And then I make perfectly clear that the only known werewolf in England is in my custody and not to be commandeered for government use. He can’t have you.”

Tying his shoes and standing up, John faces him sternly. “Sherlock, I’m not safe to be around you.”

“What are you talking about? The wolf was better-behaved than you are.”

“The man who bit me was my best friend. His wolf thought I was his mate. And when I defied the wolf, it massacred an entire town to teach me a lesson. His wolf was well-behaved and friendly until I stood in the way of something it wanted. And my wolf wants you.”

“Wants me,” Sherlock repeats, making sure he’s getting the right meaning of that.

“Can we please discuss this later?” John asks. He’s aching and tired, they’ve just killed a man and left the corpse, and it’s the middle of the night. They are not having this conversation now.

Sherlock falls quiet. He follows John back to his room at the inn without further commentary.

“There’s only one bed,” John points out. Sherlock ignores both it and him, preferring to curl up in a chair and steeple his hands in thought. Letting him do as he pleases, John changes into pyjama pants and sleeps.

When they check out the next morning, the innkeeper looks them both over and makes his own assumptions about the one bed. John lets him. Better that than guessing the truth about their last night’s activities.

On the long drive back to London, Sherlock interrogates him. “What do you mean by ‘mate’?”

“I don’t know,” John says, honestly. “Most of what I know is from what my former friend told me. The one who bit me. He told me that a werewolf can recognize its mate, and that having a mate tames the wolf.”

“It’s not sexual, then?”

“It is sexual. He told me that werewolves always mate humans, and that two male werewolves will always fight. Neither of us ever encountered a female werewolf.”

Sherlock thinks for a few minutes in silence.

“And your wolf wishes to mate with me.”

John feels his ears go red. “Yes. There’s a second part of it: mating seems to be an imprinting process. As far as I can tell, the wolf always seeks a mate, which it chooses from my romantic prospects. It starts imprinting on whoever I’m currently dating.”

Sherlock, of course, figures it out at once. “That’s why you suddenly began dating a new woman every month. You’re trying to prevent it imprinting on me.”

“Yes,” John says, guilty. “I should have just left when I first realized.”

“Has it worked?” 

“Yes and no. Dating a new woman every month confuses it, but it still wants you.”

“Because you consistently spend most of your time with me. I’m the best candidate for imprinting. I see. Do you want me?”

John keeps his gaze firmly on the road. “You’re my best friend. And I’m not gay.”

“You do,” Sherlock concludes. “Interesting.”

He falls silent again, leaving John to try and sort through his turmoil of emotions.

“You look good today,” Sherlock says.

“What? Sherlock. Are you hitting on me?”

“No.” Sherlock sounds both indignant and amused. “I’m observing. Every time you come back from Shropshire, you look like you’ve been poisoned, and every month it’s worse. Today you look healthy. Healthier than you’ve been in months. Why?”

“I was told that the wolf needs to either hunt or mate on the full moon. Instead, I’ve been locking myself in a bomb shelter.”

“And your health is suffering accordingly.” Sherlock drums his fingers against his chin, thinking. “We can bring you out here again on the full moon—“

“No.”

Confused, Sherlock studies him. “You’re going to keep locking yourself in your bomb shelter.”

“Yes.”

“What happens to your health, if you keep doing that?”

John grits his teeth. “I die.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Unacceptable. No.”

“You can’t let me out to hunt, Sherlock. I will rape and kill civilians, just like the Hound.”

“If—“

“And if you let me around you as a wolf, in the words of the man who bit me, I might rape you to death.”

That shuts Sherlock up for the rest of the trip.

~

It takes three days for Mycroft to stop by. He’s sipping tea in Sherlock’s flat when John walks in.

“John,” Mycroft says, with a predatory smile. “Sit, please.”

Sherlock’s sitting nearby, playing idly with his violin and pretending to ignore them both.

“Sherlock tells me that I’m not to take you away. I was surprised to learn that your little domestic arrangement is even more codependent than I suspected.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock scolds.

“I’ll keep your secret and leave you in Sherlock’s care, but in return I need all the information that you have about werewolves. If there is another Hound running around, I need to be able to have it dealt with.” Mycroft folds his hands and waits.

“I don’t believe there are other werewolves in England,” John begins. “The Hound was a soldier from Afghanistan, like I was. I know there was a terrorist cell using werewolves to kill. I believe the Hound was one of theirs, but the cell has since been destroyed.”

“By former Colonel Sebastian Moran, I gather. Feel free to use his name. I’ve already connected those particular dots, and I’m also aware that the two of you were in a homosexual relationship—“

Sherlock’s head swivels with interest.

“—so please, spare no detail on his account.”

John sets his jaw, annoyed. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“Dishonorable discharge. After that, Russia.”

“Russia?”

“I don’t have any more recent information, I’m afraid.”

“Fine.” Taking a deep breath, John starts at the beginning and recounts everything he knows.

~

Sherlock frowns at him the next time he packs for the full moon. “You could stay here. Your cell in the basement is soundproof.”

“Shropshire,” John insists.

“Why?”

“Because you’re too curious for your own good. Why does it matter to you if I’m here or in Shropshire?” John stops in front of him and crosses his arms, prepared to argue.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Sherlock says. “I won’t let you kill yourself month by month.”

“There isn’t a choice, Sherlock. It’s a curse, not a minor inconvenience.” Shaking his head, John turns away.

Sherlock stays where he is, watching him pack. After a few minutes, he speaks through gritted teeth. “I need you.”

“No,” John doesn’t look up, despite how difficult it was for Sherlock to make the confession. “You don’t.”

“ _I will not let you die,_ ” Sherlock growls, raw emotion on his face. John’s only seen him show emotion like this once before, when one of his cases had endangered Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock.” Voice softening, John sets down the shirt he is folding. “You don’t. You barely notice when I’m here. I’m sorry for putting you through this, but you’ll be okay. You’ll move on.”

“Are you aware that before you came, Mycroft had me under constant, high-priority surveillance? He was waiting for the day I got bored and restless enough to start creating murders, instead of solving them. Lestrade thinks the same, and has told me as much to my face. Mycroft has said that you make me a decent person, and might one day make me a good person, by which he means that as long as you’re around, he has fewer worries about me turning into a serial killer. If you don’t believe my assurance that I need you, then please, by all means, talk to them.”

“You wouldn’t,” John says, softly. He looks up, faith in Sherlock unshakeable. “You’re not like that.”

Rant derailed, Sherlock stares at him, soothed and intrigued by John’s conviction.

“You’ve always been a good person, Sherlock. Whatever Mycroft may think, he’s wrong on that count. You have always been a good man.”

“Genius needs an audience, John,” Sherlock says, but John hears what Sherlock can’t make himself vulnerable enough to say:

_A good man needs someone to believe in him._

“I’ll be back in two days, Sherlock,” he says, with an encouraging smile, as if they’re only talking about him leaving for the weekend.

Sherlock sits in the corner and sulks.

~

John’s flirting with the girl at the counter of a cafe, wasting time before their next move in a case. He needs a new girlfriend. Sherlock has been unusually clingy and irritable since the Hound case, and it’s making John’s wolf whiny and even more irritable.

Right when he’s about to ask for her number, Sherlock comes over and puts a hand on his arm. “Come sit down,” Sherlock murmurs, in a voice much softer than anything he normally uses, and then drops his head and kisses John’s neck just below the ear.

That spot is incredibly ticklish. It makes John’s eyes close and his body shudder, a purely physical reaction that is followed quickly by a furious blush. The gesture was so intimate, everyone in the cafe has immediately concluded that they are lovers.

He can see the interest in the girl’s face shut off in an instant. She hands him his drink with a sheepish smile, probably assuming John doesn’t know that he’s misleadingly friendly. “You’re a cute couple,” she says.

John gives her a faltering smile in return. Sherlock still has that hand on his arm, and his heart is pounding. The wolf is just about doing flips with possessive annoyance. _Mine want mine mate mine._

“Thanks,” John says, and goes to sit down.

Playing along with Sherlock’s boyfriend facade, he keeps quiet about it until they’re outside of the cafe. “What the hell was that?”

“Jealousy,” Sherlock says. He keeps on walking, ignoring John’s clear desire to hash this out right here and now.

John stops in surprise, and has to hurry to catch up. He expected Sherlock to make some excuse or play dumb, like he usually does when sabotaging John’s relationships.

“What do you mean, jealousy?”

Sherlock doesn’t slow down, so that he gives John no opportunity to meet his eyes. “I think you will prefer to postpone this conversation until we are somewhere private.”

“Fine,” John snaps.

He scowls at Sherlock through the rest of the case, speaks curtly to Mrs. Hudson on their way in, and stops in the middle of the living room to glare at Sherlock. “‘Jealousy’?”

Picking up his violin, Sherlock plunks half-heartedly at the strings. “Jealousy. I’m tired of you wasting time on these dull women.”

“Sherlock. You know why I date like I do.”

“Yes. And I’ve had enough of it.”

“That isn’t up to you!”

Putting down the instrument, Sherlock walks over and stops in front of him, cold blue gaze unblinking.

John swallows and licks his lips, rattled by Sherlock’s proximity after the earlier kiss to his neck. “What are you suggesting?”

“We’ve established that you want me. I am extremely jealous when you date anyone else. Your attempts to repress the wolf’s mating instinct are causing problems for us both. I wish to try a romantic and sexual relationship with you.”

“No,” John says, drawing out the word to emphasize it. 

“Why not?”

“Mating the werewolf? You’re talking about letting a giant wolf-creature rape you.”

“I am consenting, John, it isn’t rape, and your wolf form has only slightly more mass. I’d hardly call that giant.”

“No.”

“Is it the bestiality you’re objecting to, or the homosexuality?”

“I am objecting to the part where I could seriously hurt you, or turn you, or worse! Stop this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock studies him. The emotions that flicker across Sherlock’s face are unreadable. “And if I told you that I loved you?”

John’s shoulders sag slightly at that. If Sherlock confessed love and meant it, saying no to him would be harder. But he still would. “Then I’d say, too bad,” John replies, and turns away to go back to his flat.

~

As John packs for the next full moon, Sherlock stops in the door to his bedroom.

“Please,” he says.

That hurts, because Sherlock never says please. He’ll go miles out of his way to avoid it.

John just ignores him.

When he finally looks up, Sherlock is gone.

~

“Pack a bag,” Sherlock orders. “We’re going to Ukraine.”

“ _Ukraine?_ Why?”

“Urgent business,” Sherlock says, with his smug pleasure in knowing things that John doesn’t. “We’ll be back in plenty of time for the full moon.”

“Right.” John sighs, knowing he’s not going to get any more than that. 

He keeps trying, over the next day and on the way to the airport, with no success.

“Is this for a case? What case? Is it important that I don’t know or are you just being a dick? You usually don’t bring me along on international cases.”

Sherlock just smiles.

In Kiev, they get a rental car. Sherlock gives directions while John drives. It takes hours, deep into the countryside, before Sherlock directs him to park in a tiny village. From there they walk up a little winding path to an ancient farmhouse on the side of a hill. 

The little old woman who opens the door greets them with a bright smile and invites them inside. Sherlock responds to her in her own language, and they chatter amiably at each other, both of them indicating John more than once. Trying not to be annoyed at being excluded, John steps inside the cozy farmhouse and stops.

He smells the wolf before he sees it. Even once he does, it takes his brain a moment to accept that the wrinkled old man sitting quietly by the fireplace is the werewolf he smells.

“John,” Sherlock says, “may I introduce Fedir Timko and his mate and wife, Mariya.”

John gets it at once. Sherlock has tracked down a werewolf couple, most likely with Mycroft’s help, and brought him here to prove a point. A tiny part of him is annoyed at the manipulation. Most of him is overwhelmed with fascination and hope.

“You’re his mate,” he says, awed. “… How long?”

Sherlock translates.

“Fifty-eight years.”

Fifty-eight years. He watches, disbelieving, as she pats her husband’s head and kisses his cheek, and then scolds at the boys to sit while she makes tea. 

“Do you go out to hunt on the full moons?” John asks. They both look so happy and healthy. 

“No, never,” Fedir answers, through Sherlock. “It isn’t safe.” He offers no explanation of whether he means not safe for himself and Mariya, or not safe for others. “We stay inside,” he continues, giving his wife an affectionately lecherous glance. 

“Do you lock yourself in?”

Mariya chirps something in reply, and gives Sherlock an encouraging swat on the shoulder when he doesn’t translate quickly enough. “No need.”

John stifles a grin at the swat. Sherlock’s so difficult around most people, but he has a soft spot for well-behaved children and the elderly. The Mrs. Hudsons of the world, at any age. It’s endearing to see how naturally he gets on with these two strangers.

“The wolf trusts me,” Mariya explains. “If I say sit, stay, he sits and waits for me to return. He knows to mind me.”

“Do you think of the wolf and your husband as different people?” Sherlock asks. 

“No. They are the same. The wolf has his sense of humor, and he knows what I like.”

John finds himself blushing at the little grin she shares with her husband, and has an idea he knows what she means by that.

Sherlock asks a few questions in a row without translating. From the hand gestures, John isn’t sure he wants to know. They’re getting lessons in werewolf sex from a Ukrainian octogenarian.

“Werewolves copulate like canines,” Sherlock says, returning his attention to John. “Are you familiar with knotting?”

“ _Knotting?_ No. What? Why do you know about canine sex?”

“During intercourse, the base of the wolf’s phallus swells, in order to lock itself with its mate and increase the chances of insemination.” 

“Christ.” Bright red, John rubs awkwardly at his face. “She just _told_ you that?”

“In less scientific terms, yes. She said she finds it very pleasurable.”

“Jesus Christ, _Sherlock_.” John wants to disappear into the ground.

“Did you have any other concerns you wanted to ask them about?”

“Please stop talking with her about sex.” John grumbles, but he accepts the tea and chats with Fedir about his life and experiences with a werewolf.

It’s a comfortable way to spend an evening. John still isn’t sure what he wants, but he honestly likes the two of them. Shameless though they are. He suspects they’re delighted to finally have someone to talk to about their life-long secret. He can forgive them for over-sharing a little. Especially when Sherlock’s so much to blame for prompting them.

As they leave, both Sherlock and John make promises to return. Neither talks on the drive to the nearby town where Sherlock has booked a hotel. John needs space to think, and Sherlock lets him have it.

They have one room with two beds. Sherlock sinks into a chair once they’re inside, studying John patiently. John ignores that, taking his time washing up and brushing his teeth. 

When he’s done, John sits on the far bed in his pyjama pants and looks across the room at Sherlock. “Is that what you want?” he asks. “What they have?”

Sherlock holds his gaze, expression curious and slightly predatory. “Yes.”

Chewing on his lip, John thinks about that for a moment before meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “Are you just doing it to save my life?”

“I admit that keeping you alive is my highest priority, but I am in no way doing this out of a sense of obligation. I wish to try a romantic and sexual relationship, specifically with you. I accept the complications that come with that, and I do not consider any of them to be unpleasant.”

The unrelenting rationality of his response is somehow reassuring. John laughs and shakes his head. “And you would know, too. How many hours did you spend researching canine sex?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and does not deign to respond to that.

“I don’t know if I’m okay with it,” John confesses. “I’ve only tried one other relationship with a man. It was never a real relationship, and it ended when he bit me and slaughtered a town full of civilians. Which is crazy. My whole life since I met him has been crazy.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

“Sebastian? No. Even as a human, he didn’t have much guilt about killing towns full of civilians. I did love him. We were so different in so many ways, but there was a moment in time, in Afghanistan: a year where time sometimes stood still and there was nothing in the world but us. I hate him, and he’s probably out there somewhere—Russia—running with the worst possible people. If I ever found myself in a situation where we were pointing guns at each other, I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. But no. I don’t love him anymore.”

Looking down at his hands, John takes a moment to process through his emotions. “I’m yours now,” he decides, at last. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do,” Sherlock confirms. “John, you know that… I’ve informed myself about these things, but I am relatively inexperienced.”

John can’t help but grin. “I gathered that, yes. We can take things slow. Do you want to cuddle?”

An instant’s panic flits across Sherlock’s face. “I might not be good at it.”

John grins fondly at him. “Just put on your pyjamas and come here.”

Returning the grin, Sherlock crosses the room and stops in front of him, leaning down for a kiss. John returns it, soft and sweet, and then lets him go change. 

When Sherlock returns to bed in his pyjama pants, John reaches out for him, putting an arm over Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock takes a moment to consider that, tentatively sliding his arm around John’s back. Within about two minutes, the tentative grip turns into Sherlock somehow tangling every one of his limbs around John and half suffocating him. John feels more like a teddy bear than a boyfriend, but the clinginess is endearing. He suspects that Sherlock has always been a physical person, burying it very deeply under the Holmes family motto; _caring is not an advantage._

But they’re together now. Everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please follow me on tumblr at marlowe-tops.tumblr.com


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